


The way you see me

by Mamajo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Dancing, Fluff, M/M, Mrs. Hudson's brownies, Recipe, balletlock, more to follow as story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:04:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mamajo/pseuds/Mamajo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day John came home to Sherlock dancing changed everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been inspired by a post I saw on Tumblr awhile back, where you were encouraged to describe a dance scene between Sherlock and John and make it 5000 words minimum. Well, the muse struck and has been nagging at me on and off for two months now. So this is part one of I-don't-know-how-many-chapters-yet and I decided to post this before I picked the story to pieces.
> 
> This was betaed by the lovely magnetklaue and by the super vigilant hedgehogandotter.
> 
> I hope you enjoy :)

It had not been a good day. 

Almost all of John's patients had in one way or another tried his good humour. Several had puked on him and coughed in his face, one little girl even managed to poop on his shoes (he couldn't exactly recount how that had happened).  
Sarah had lent him some trainers to wear on his way home, so that had been a plus. Unfortunately, they couldn't find a spare shirt. John sniffed at himself and made a face. Lovely. He took up his coat, slipped it on and stepped out of his office.

On his way out he waved goodbye to Sarah, who was still behind on updating her patient files and would probably need another hour, judging by the height of the stack of paper on her desk. Good thing he took the time to update his paper-work between his patients. He shook his head at himself and stepped onto the pavement just as it started to rain. Perfect. His umbrella was, of course, back at home. John turned up the collar on his coat and made his hasty way to the tube station around the corner. 

The air was frigid with early autumn cold and promised an end to summer. People all around him looked down, clutching their jackets like armor around them, trying to avoid contact with each other. John stepped around a couple arguing about baby food of all things. He had to smile a bit about that one. Another step and the entrance to the tube loomed in front of him. He descended into the hole and was instantly jostled by his fellow pedestrians, walking stoically on their way home from work (a majority with drawn faces, humourless, grey, just trying to get away fast fast fast, don't look at me, don't make me look at you). It wasn't much better on the platform. The air was stuffy, humid from the last days of Summer.

John found a relatively safe place to stand against the wall, just watching people for a bit. All he could see around himself were pale faces. Only here and there were people laughing, or at least smiling about something (someone). He crossed his arms before his chest and leaned back into the wall behind him. In his mind a tall lanky form rested beside him, quietly deducing the teenager on their right, making snide comments about the umbrella toting business man on their far left, and making John laugh about the old lady with her bright blue coat sitting beside them on the bench. The doctor chuckled lightly, trying to remember all the details of the people around him so he could relate them later to Sherlock and watch him weave his magic from afar. 

With a loud roar, the next train entered the station. Masses of bodies surged forward in their desire to escape and John let himself drift, getting on the train and securing a standing place at the rear. The doors closed and he was (finally) on his way home. He began to wonder- what did Sherlock do today? Would the flat reek of some unmentionable experiment involving dead things? Or would they have to call the plumber again because the detective was incapable of operating the washing machine on his own, but refused to stop trying? He snorted. At least the latest text confirmed that they had actual food in the fridge (thank God for Mrs. Hudson) and he could make them some spaghetti with meatballs (which Sherlock seemed almost obsessed with, something to do with the texture and the red sauce, John didn't dare to ask). 

Maybe they could watch some telly after dinner, John was sure he had seen an advertisement for a good thriller in the papers. They would make a fire in the fireplace to chase away the chill of the September air. Oh, and Mrs. Hudson was sure to have made her brownies today (what with it being shopping day) and Sherlock surely would needle her for some for dessert, never mind that she would bring them a platter regardless. A nice cup of Earl Grey with a splash of milk and the evening would be perfect. Yes. John closed his eyes against the glare of the train lights for a moment. And maybe... 

Visions of creamy skin and dark curls flitted through his mind. Lazy morning encounters in bed and late night snogging sessions vied for attention. No. He shook his head lightly at his own absurd thoughts. 'Daydreaming again, John', he thought. 'A bit not good.' Sherlock certainly wouldn't appreciate the unwelcome advance. He had made his standpoint perfectly clear the last time, when John hadn't been all that careful with his thoughts and started to get hard in the middle of staring at his friends neck. Thankfully they hadn't been in public. The awkward silence the next day had been bad enough. To loose his best friend over something as trivial as sexual frustation was not something John was prepared to do. 

The train stopping at the next station shook John out of his reverie. Three more stopps to go then. The train swayed gently to the song of the tracks, bu-bumping along, getting ever closer to John's exit point. People around him calmed down, relaxing, slowly anticipating their own end of the day. Finally, the train entered Baker Street station and John made his way to the doors. It was considerably emptier than when he got on so he had no trouble reaching them. The train stopped. John stepped off and made his careful way to the exit on the right, taking the stairs with measured steps. Looked like it had decided to start pouring properly now, but no matter. He was almost home. The shower would have been his first stop anyway.

John left the stairs to the tube entrance behind him and, with his upturned collar, braved the elements for the two streets he had to cross to reach his goal. He made it to the front door in just under five minutes. A short search for his keys had the door open not much long after and he sighed in relief at being indoors. John took a deep breath, allowing the warm air of the hallway to enter his lungs. He made short work of his coat, hanging it just inside the door before he took the seventeen stairs to their flat. Music floated out of the living room into the hall, but he only stopped for a short moment on his way to the bathroom to shout a quick 'Hello, I'm home'. The call of the shower was too strong. Taking the additional ten stairs to his room for clean clothes (his favourite jumper made of thick alpaca wool in deep rich green, a long sleeved shirt striped in blue, some new pants and his pyjama bottoms with the black dots), he made his final detour to the linen closet for some towels. 

Closing the bathroom door behind him, he laid his new clothes on the counter and quickly shed his shoes and jeans. The sodden jumper and the button down followed, socks and pants found their way to the hamper in the corner. Stepping into the shower he fiddled for a moment with the controls, but soon enough hot water fell on his head and he closed his eyes in bliss. This was heaven. The steam helped with the cold still left in his lungs, his bad shoulder finally seemed to unknot. When John grabbed the soap, he was almost all the way relaxed. His movements were languid and without rush, just letting his hands wander, getting clean without setting a time limit for once. 

Soap suds spiraled down the drain, leaving little marks on the shower wall. John delayed the end of his shower with two more deep sighs, before he turned the stream of water off. The resutling cold air made him shiver. One fluffy towel got rid of all the water and his goosebumps, then he put on his clothes (the jumper was for later, for sitting in front of the fire and nodding off to Sherlock rambling about the obvious flaws in the plot of the movie), cleaned up the room a bit and stepped out of the bath. 

The music was still playing. Something soft and kind of melancholy. He stood in the hall for a moment. Seemed as if Sherlock was in a bit of a mood, if he was playing this. John sighed and shook his head, resuming his way to the kitchen. Hopefully the spaghetti with meatballs would cheer his friend up. But then he stopped again. John abruptly realized that ist wasn't violin music he was hearing. It sounded like... a stereo? But why would Sherlock play something from a stereo (they had a stereo?, maybe his computer)? Now this was something worth investigating. 

John detoured from the kitchen doorway to the living room. He opened the door gently, not wanting to disturb the atmosphere. And immediately halted in his tracks. His mouth fell open, the jumper left suddenly lax fingers and dropped unnoticed to the floor. This... 

Sherlock. 

He was... dancing. 

But not like ball room dancing, no. Contemporary dancing - professional contemporary dancing. 

All the furniture had been pushed aside to make space in the middle of their living room. Papers and magazines were stacked on the work table by the window, books were actually crammed in the book cases instead of covering every surface (their armchairs especially) and the coffee table was nowhere to be seen (probably banned to the kitchen). Sherlock's laptop was open on the mantelpiece, cables sticking out of ports, trailing around the perimeter of the room to small, (but by the sound of them) pretty powerful speakers, converting their flat into a theater with a surround sound system. And in the middle of the floor was Sherlock. 

He was kneeling, arms stretched before him, his forehead touching the carpet. He was wearing a tanktop and black leggings, glistening with sweat and breathing rapidly, as if he had been dancing for a while. 

Then he moved. By the looks of it, a new piece had just started. And before John's eyes, a story began to unfold. 

Sherlock's limbs began to spread, to flicker this way and that way and started to create a motion of fluidity like John had never seen before. The longer he watched though, the more it seemed as if Sherlock danced with an invisible partner. 

As if a piece was missing. 

His body contorted around a shape, followed it, chased it, watched it leave with despair. John's heart started to hurt just looking at Sherlock trying to reach out and being rejected. Again and again. His friend's face showed his anguish, his mouth twisted, his eyes full of sadness and a growing hopelessness, that was almost too much to witness. 

He was breathtaking. 

Muscles trembled from the strain of holding poses, from leaps that nearly took him all the way to the other side of the room. Sweat drops dotted the carpet; black curls almost obscured the view of that beloved face. John's hand covered his mouth, as he tried to hold back tears. He had never seen this much emotion from Sherlock. It was almost surreal. He wanted to go to him, wanted to enfold him in his arms and tell him, that all would be well, that he was here for Sherlock, that he was protected. But John didn't dare to break the spell engulfing their flat. It had to play out until the end. 

Suddenly the music changed, became fierce, full of drums, full of power. John took an involuntary step back into the hall as Sherlock almost exploded into motion. He started to spin, to leap, to move with a new purpose. 

Now he was showing himself as a survivor. Nobody would break him. He wouldn't allow it. He would always find a way to stand up again and start anew. 

Sherlock's expression changed with his dancing. His eyes started to hold that well-known gleam of arrogance again. He bared his teeth in a show of defiance and in a show of willingness to challenge whoever dared to defy him in this. John held his breath in answer. This was the proud creature he called friend. This was the Sherlock he knew. 

The drums became louder and louder, seeming to fill the whole world with their call to arms. John twitched, his bare toes tapping along to the rhythm. His torso started to sway in counterpoint to Sherlock's stomping feet. The air in the flat became heavy with promise, with a foreboding feeling of a fight to come. Sherlock's arms and legs started to mimic the careful choreography of martial arts, showing off their knowledge, their capacity for violence at a moments notice. He became a blur of moving limbs. 

John couldn't wait any longer, didn't want to really. With a decisive step forward he joined the fray and let himself be swept up in the world of shadows Sherlock had created. The moves he saw were familiar to him from his army training and he morphed seamlessly into Sherlock's dance. 

Only the sudden widening of steel grey pupils showed the surprise on his friend's face at the sudden intrusion. Sherlock adapted his moves immediateley to accommodate a partner. Together they let the music guide their steps, circlling each other carefully, seeking weak moments, testing boundaries. Their eyes never left each other. The deep drums in the background made sure they stayed in touch with the music. John found himself grinning, a tightening of the lips, showing all his teeth. Sherlock mirrored him. It was exhilarating to see those all-seeing eyes fixated on him, John, the unassuming doctor with the occasional limp. And to feel free, to be absolutely in control of his body - John hadn't felt that in ages. They moved faster, darting in different directions, stalking each other, becoming prey and predator before morphing slowly back into a partnership. 

Sherlock winked at him, before he spun away and performed a series of high kicks, that left John open mouthed and in awe. The last kick brought the detective back into John's space and left Sherlock panting. Abruptly the music stopped. 

Only their rapid breathing filled the sudden silence. They stood toe to toe, barely daring to blink in case the other missed a clue that would reveal how to proceed from here on out. Their breaths mingled. 

John licked his dry lips and made the first step.  
"I never knew."  
Sherlock flexed his hands.  
"I never told."  
John blinked.  
"True."

Sweat tickled the doctor's brow, making him wipe his face on the seam of his fresh shirt (which wasn't all that fresh anymore).  
"Now I wonder why I bothered with that shower."  
Sherlock chuckled. His gaze followed John's fingers as they wiped more moisture from his neck. "I should probably go and clean up."  
Caught in the contemplation of the state of his shirt John looked up. "Yeah, might be a good idea. Don't want those muscles to get too cold without a proper stretching."  
Sherlock nodded.  
Neither moved.

Well, thought John, this could take a while. He could see all kinds of information flying behind his friend's eyes, being processed and he could see Sherlock trying to comprehend what they had done. John felt his heart rate slowing, felt sweat cooling on his back and simply waited for the next move.

In the end it was Sherlock who decided to end their stalemate by the simple action of blinking and saying:  
„I'll go and take that shower then.“  
His smile was a bit strained and he almost fled the room, his movements abrupt and miles away from his normal fluid grace. He even stumbled a little on his way out the door. John frowned. It was just like Sherlock to overdo things. They could deal with simple soreness, but if the stupid git had somehow managed to overly strain his muscles (which was all too possible with the way he had been dancing), they'd have to be careful the next few days and John had to make sure they didn't do anything too strenous. 

The doctor sighed. This day had certainly taken a turn for the surreal. He shook his head and started to sort out the chaos of their living room. John was almost finished (the coffee table had been in the kitchen as predicted) when Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, clad in his usual tshirt-pyjama-bottoms-bath- robe-combo, his curls still dripping water everywhere. His eyes swept over John, showing nothing in his features to indicate his emotional state. At least he was moving all right. It seemed as if his stumble had been an anomaly. John still vowed to look out for signs of damage.

„Bathroom's free.“  
The deep voice of his friend made John blink. That... was unusual. That sentence had been more than superfluous. Sherlock must have realised it at the same time the words had left his lips and grimaced in annoyance. He flapped his right hand at John.  
„You know what I mean.“  
John nodded, staring at his friend a bit nonplussed but decided to let the moment slide. Setting down the last magazine on the newly installed coffee table, John went to take his second shower of the day.


	2. The Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the dance, but before the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally something new. Guess, the writing bug bit me. May it stay that way. Un-betaed. Please fell free to correct me on mistakes.

Feeling refreshed and pleasantly sore from his impromptu workout, John made his way into the kitchen to finally start on dinner. A short peek into the living room showed Sherlock in his favourite position on their sofa (reclining with his hands steepled in front of his face), apparently deep in thought. John left him to it. Sherlock would come out of his head when the smells of the meatballs and the tomato sauce would reach that sensitive nose of his. With a tiny smile stretching his lips, John got to work.

Fresh tomatoes joined two onions and garlic gloves on the chopping board, followed closely by a small zucchini and a red bell pepper. Mincemeat was set aside into a huge bowl, ready to be mixed with cardamom, ginger, an egg and mustard. John diced the onions and added the crushed garlic to the meat, stirred vigorously for a minute and started to form the meatballs. The small balls ended up in the big pan reserved especially for this recipe, and soon enough oil started to give off the typical smell of olives. The rest of the ingredients were chopped and would be added to the meatballs as soon as they were deemed brown enough.

The sound of shuffling feet behind him made John grin. That had been faster then he thought. He stirred the meat balls before adding the rest of the vegetables that sat waiting on the chopping board. By the time he finished and had put the board into the sink to be washed, Sherlock had snuck around him to the cheerfully bubbling pan and was already reaching for a spoon for his 'taste test'.

„You know that's not finished, right?“   
Sherlock snorted.  
„I was waiting for you to add the spices.“  
The 'obviously' hang almost visible between them. John shook his head and raided the spice rack. Pepper, salt and curry found their way into the boiling mass of scrumptious goodness, some paprika and thyme made it into the pan as well. Before Sherlock could commence with his 'testing' though, the doctor put the lid on the pan, turned down the heat a bit and waggled his finger at him.

„Let it simmer a while. You know it won't be ready for another half hour or so.“  
The disappointed face of the detective nearly made John laugh.  
„You'll thank me later. Now, why don't you go see if Mrs. Hudson has her brownies ready. I'll make some tea. Tell her to join us for dinner if she wants.“  
Sherlock grumbled, but did as told. It wasn't surprising. Those brownies were damn good, and he always managed to sneak at least one on the stairs on his way back up to their flat. The doctor cleaned up a bit and set the table for later. By the time the stairs creaked with Sherlock's footsteps again, John had made tea and put the finishing touches to their cups as Sherlock entered. His arms were laden with a huge platter of fresh baked brownies. John sniffed appreciatively at the scent of chocolate. 

„Mrs. Hudson will come up to eat with us. She'll be here in about 15 minutes.“  
John nodded.  
„Put those in the oven to keep warm, would you?“  
John stirred the tea, got rid of the used teabags and made his way to the living room. The opening and closing of the oven door was heard, before Sherlock joined him. John still had the tea cups in his hands and passed Sherlock his as he walked past on the way to his armchair. The doctor sighed as he let himself fall into his own chair. What a day. He sipped his tea, watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. The curly haired man had his feet up, his long arms wrapped around them, tea held carefully between his fingers. After a minute of silence between them, Sherlock spoke.

„Ask.“  
John lifted an eyebrow.  
„Do you want me to ask?“  
The look of surprise on the detective's face was nowhere near subtle.  
„Don't you want to know?“  
John smiled.  
„Oh sure. But not if it's something you'd rather not talk about.“  
„Why wouldn't I want to talk about this?“  
The indignation was well played, but John heard the slight tremble of underlying stress. 

„Look, it's obviously something private, and I'm sorry I barged in on you like I did. It would be my greatest pleasure to join you, if you were ever willing to dance again in our flat. But if it's not something you are comfortable with, I understand and won't ask a second time.“  
John concentrated on his mug, waiting a bit nervously for a reaction from the other man. For a long time there was only breathing till finally Sherlock cleared his throat. 

„It was a way for me to let go once in a while.“ Shifting. More throat clearing. John had never seen his friend so out of his depth.  
„I was a precocious child, always under foot and running around looking for distractions, things to occupy my mind to keep it from stagnating. Mother was away on business, Father had his lab-work and Mycroft had to deal with school.“  
Sherlock lifted his teacup and took a sip. The rain was really coming down now, creating a subtle background noise.  
„I was six when I saw a documentary on the telly. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.“ The wonder on Sherlock's face had John blinking. The detective looked as if he had entirely forgotten where he was and was reliving that moment when his life changed.  
„That same day I asked Mycroft to search for a good school for contemporary dance and make it possible for me sign up. You can imagine his face.“ Sherlock chuckled lightly at the memory. John grinned, his brain conjuring a small Sherlock with curls flying every which way, a serious expression on his face, demanding dance lessons.  
„The moment I stepped into that studio, I was in heaven. I never felt so free as when I could move my body to the beat of the music.“ Here, Sherlock looked up and, honest to God, blushed. John was amazed. His friend's stare seemed to bore right into his very being.  
„I could loose myself, could forget the taunts, which would become part of my life shortly after I started my education in the public school system. It was, and still is I suppose, a way to let the voices in my head fall silent. It's a way of stepping back and letting myself... be.“

Sherlock stopped and took a deep breath. John put down his tea (he wasn't drinking it anyway) and stood up. His friend threw him a startled glance. The doctor calmly walked the short distance to Sherlock's chair and knelt before him.  
„You are the most remarkable man I have ever known, Sherlock Holmes.“  
John reached up and cupped Sherlock's face in his hands.  
„You are an incredible person and if I could, I would go back in time and would make everybody who ever made you feel bad about yourself, see you for the fantastic man you are. Don't ever doubt me and my friendship, Sherlock.“ John saw the widening eyes, the slight opening of lips, of a jaw gone slack with amazement. Slowly, so as to prevent Sherlock from shying away, he let his hands drift down to his friend's shoulders and pulled them close for a (bit of an awkward) hug. Sherlock held still for a moment, then John felt tentative arms reaching around him, returning the embrace. He was shivering slightly, if with emotion or simply from the cold, or even exhaustion from the dancing, John didn't know. All he gathered was that Sherlock needed this and he was more than glad that he was here to provide this small bit of comfort.

The steps of Mrs. Hudson on the stairs interrupted the moment some five minutes later and they let go of each other. John watched Sherlock’s eyes for a second, looking for calm and composure his friend was so known for. Sherlock looked back, a bit wide eyed around the edges, but more together than before. John nodded in satisfaction and stood, cradling his now gone cold tea mug.  
”Dinner should be ready in about ten minutes.”  
Sherlock blinked and leaned back into his armchair. It looked like he needed to process the last few minutes. John left him to it and went to the door to let Mrs. Hudson in. Their landlady came bearing some more gifts.  
“I thought you boys could use some more brownies. I will never finish these on my own.”  
A huge platter filled to the brim with the delicious treats was thrust into John’s hand. He grinned. Bless her.  

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Hudson. Would you like some tea? I was just about to put the spaghetti in the pot, and Sherlock needs a moment.”  
They stepped into the kitchen, John moving over to the stove, putting the kettle on and turning the heat on under the waiting pot of water. The scent of the slowly simmering pan full of tomato and spice and meatballs filled the air, as John lifted the lid off to stir the contents.  
“Oh John, that smells lovely.”  
A small hand reached around him, clutching a wooden spoon and tried to sneak a taste. The doctor chuckled and slapped gently at the spoon.  
“Oh no, you don’t. It’ll be ready in ten minutes, just be patient.”  
Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue and  affected a small pout. John just laughed. 

He pulled down a fresh mug for his landlady, and the clicking of the fridge door told him the milk was on its way to the counter top. The sugar pot was put on the table alongside the spoons. Right on cue the kettle boiled. Fresh tea bags were put to good use. The fragrant smell of Earl Grey made John smile. He added milk and sugar where appropriate, before motioning Mrs. Hudson to sit down at the table so he could place the tea in front of her. He made a short trip to Sherlock’s side to exchange his cold tea for a new cup (he barely acknowledged John’s presence, only his fingers moved to curl around the handle) before he continued with his dinner preparations. Spaghetti were tossed into the waiting water, the mixture in the pan got another stir. In the background Mrs. Hudson prattled on about the neighbours, the going-ons at Baker Street and downstairs at the café, filling the kitchen with gossip and good cheer. John smiled and nodded at the right moments, starting to relax again. What a day that had been.  
   
Soon enough the food was ready to be served. John walked over to his friend and crouched beside the armchair.  
“Sherlock, come on, dinner is ready.”  
His soft words seemed to register after a minute as, slowly but surely, awareness creeped back into the features. Sharp eyes zeroed in on the figure on his right.  
“John.”  
“Hi.”  
„Dinner?“  
John nodded.  
„Fine.“  
With a small grunt Sherlock heaved himself upward. John watched for stiffness in his gait as he followed his friend to the kitchen table. So far he couldn't detect anything amiss. The real challenge would be the next morning when the muscles had had time to cool down over night. But one problem at a time.

They sat down to eat. Sherlock actually took a second helping. John was pleased and let him eat in peace. Mrs. Hudson praised his cooking, stayed for dessert and then went downstairs again ('To have a lie-down, could you keep it quiet, boys'). Sherlock didn't say a single word the whole time. John left him sitting at the table to munch on brownies and did the washing up. After everything was clean, he made them some more tea.

'Come on, the sofa is more comfortable.'  
Sherlock put one more brownie in his dressing gown pocket and followed John into the sitting room. The rest of the day was spend watching Doctor Who, with the occasional break for more brownies and tea. All in all, a pleasant end to a not so good day.


End file.
